Finding Home
by Ck25B
Summary: Formerly You Take What You Can Get. 5yrs ago, Hannibal and Clarice's children lost their father. But, is he really dead...? 2 NEW CHAPTERS!
1. 1

Lately I've been wondering about something, and it all has to do with what happened five years ago. I keep going back to that night over and over again in my head, and I keep wondering what would have happened if I had reacted differently. My father was a known and wanted serial killer, and my mother was a sort of Benedict Arnold of the FBI (not that I blame her, of course). Somehow the FBI had found our whereabouts and had basically destroyed my family on sight. It was in a public square, too, in Vienna. My twin brother and I were nearly twenty but it still stings me as bad as it would have if it had happened as a child. We were all there in the square, buying stuff for dinner, and suddenly, Dad was shot to the ground and we were all off and running. It happened so fast I woke up the next morning thinking it was all a dream, but it wasn't. Dad was dead and we had to get out of Austria. Fast. 

My mother then insisted that we "vacate the nest" as she put it. We were nineteen, she said, and it was high time for us to strike out on our own. Needless to say the thought of being seperated terrified my brother and I. Not only was our father suddenly dead, but our mother insisted we leave home and begin our lives. I felt worse for Malachi: he and Dad were so close, too close I thought, they spent every waking moment together if possible. Malachi adored Dad in every way, and while I loved Dad too, I don't think I needed him half as much as Malachi did. 

Malachi didn't speak at all for the first few days after Dad's death. I've come to believe it was not so much because of shock, but more of a dignity aspect: no doubt Dad's body was somewhere in the depths of the FBI, never destined to have a funeral of any sort. It would be studied and photographed and dissected. They would, naturally, probe his brain for any physical deformations that would have caused his "condition". Thoughts like these must have ravaged my brother, for sometimes at night I would hear him cry incessantly from his bedroom. His tortured wails would ultimately lead me to shed more than a few tears, and would lead to both of us crying together all night. 

Malachi was a strange child and is a complicated adult. He seems quiet and passive, but really he is a complex and angst-ridden soul. I love him more than anyone else on this earth. Psychopathic behavior intrigues him, as it intrigued Dad. They used to spend long hours by the fire discussing infamous cases and ideas. Mostly Malachi dedicates his time to writing articles for scholarly psychiatric journals. Writing is his first love, and psychology is his second. Part of me has always believed he is so intense about psychology because he is driven to find out who—or rather, what—he really is. 

But is my living with him hindering him from something? Its not that I feel I am intruding on his life or anything, seeing as he has no friends and has no interest in the fairer sex, but maybe there is a time and place where we should say goodbye, at least for a little while.

I'm pondering all this as I brush my hair in the full length mirror in our London home. Malachi is downstairs in his office like he usually is, tapping away in front of that ghastly computer he seems to love so much. I can smell breakfast coming from the kitchen. Jack, our modest American cook, is a "bacon and eggs" kinda guy. Neither Malachi nor I grew up eating that food, but I must say I'm beginning to like the smell of grease in the morning. It's something I can count on every morning. 

I use the back staircase and enter through the side of Malachi's office where, just as I suspected, Malachi is typing furiously on the keyboard. Sometimes I wonder why the thing hasn't broken already. 

"Hey," I say, breaking his concentration. "Breakfast is almost ready."

He looks up at me, his clear blue eyes a million miles away. "Yeah, be right there," he says in a far off tone. 

I sit down at the table and start in on that wondrously fattening (but delicious) French toast. Malachi joins me a minute later with the latest edition of a journal in his hand. I grab it and put it down. "Look, I'm tired of just staring at the cover of a magazine all during breakfast. I wanna see your face, ok?" I say playfully to my brother. He smiles good-naturedly. 

"Actually, its not a magazine. It's a journal," he points out. I roll my eyes. 

"Yeah, whatever it is, it seems like it's more important than me."

Malachi looked hurt. "Oh Rue, you know that's not true." I laugh: Malachi takes everything literally. 

"Aw, Malachi, you're a poet and you didn't know it," I tease. He smiles again, this time saying nothing. He is a quiet fella. I figure this is as good a time as any to bring up my concern over living together. Knowing my brother's feelings are easily hurt, I have to do this carefully. I really should think about it before I actually talk to him, but why put off tomorrow what can be done today? "Hey Malach?"

"Yes?"

"You know, I've been thinking…" I look over at him. I had his undivided attention now so I should probably tell him before he sticks his nose back in that damn journal. "Five years is a long time to spend with someone, isn't it?"

He scratches his chin. "Well, I suppose it depends on who you spend it with."

"Like us, Malach. We've been living together, well, all our lives, but five years alone together. I was um, wondering, well, am I inhibiting your lifestyle in any way?"

There is a look of profound confusion on his face. "No, of course not. You've known me long enough to know when I'm being bothered and when I'm not."

"No I don't. I can't read you at all. You've been my brother for twenty five years and I still haven't figured you out."

"Why would you want to leave?" he says curiously, with just a hint of hurt in his voice. This is where I had to be careful not to step on the feelings. 

"Oh, Malach, I wouldn't leave if you didn't want me to. Its just that well…I don't think we can live together our whole lives."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" I repeat, searching for an answer. There has to be one. "We have to have our own lives."

"We do. I'm an author and you are too. We have enough space from each other, don't we?" he asks in a hopeful tone. His face changes into one of hurt. "Wait, am I doing something wrong? Am I making you unhappy in the way you live your life?"

See, that's what I'm always afraid of. He's so fragile yet so distant, its frustrating to know what to say and when! I can't figure him out! "No, Malachi, of course not. I'm just saying that maybe its time we had our own lives."

"But Mother always taught us there's safety in numbers."

"Yeah, and look what happened to Dad in Vienna," I say before I can stop myself. The pain coming back to him on that day is apparent in his face. I sigh. "I'm sorry. That was a little abrupt. Yes, Mom's right, there is—_usually_—safety in numbers. But what's wrong with being a lone fugitive?" I say in a light way. Although the heartbroken expression on his face is still there, he smiles in an amused way. 

"Of course there's nothing wrong with it. And if you want to leave, then I cannot and do not want to stop you from doing it."

"I didn't say I wanted to leave. I said we should think about it."

"I'm thinking. I'm thinking."

"But do you see my point?" I say, by this time not even sure if I believe what I'm saying. I can't imagine a life without my brother, maybe not even a life where I don't see him everyday. Its not so much so that I can enjoy him, but so that I know he's ok. I worry when I'm away from him and I love when I'm around him—is the price of independence really that important? And in what terms of independence am I thinking of? I would say I've got a great life, a life that I love, right here between these walls. I had three published fiction novels and have another one coming out, I support myself entirely, I have many friends, and I love living with my brother. What was so awful about living with a relative? 

"I don't know, Rue. Maybe you should sleep on it," he says in that voice to mean, 'Please don't do what you're thinking about doing'. I sigh. 

"Ok, bro. I will." Maybe I just feel guilty for loving him so much that I want to leave. Maybe I feel its my fault.

To our surprise, Jack walked in the kitchen carrying the phone. "Hey, its your mother," he says, placing it down and leaving again. I hit speakerphone. 

"Hi Mom!" 

"Hello, Mother."

"Hi you two, how are you?"

"Good."

"Very well, thank you."

"Eating right?"

"You know it," I say as I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth.

"Some of us, anyway," Malachi says, arching an eyebrow.

"Well hey, I guess you're wondering why I called."

"What's up, Mom?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. The FBI traced my whereabouts, they are after me, and oh, they're after you too. Kids, leave the country, will you? I hear Ireland is lovely this time of year." 

We'd gone through a couple "residence changes" in the last five years, so by now it was a completely normal thing to get a phone call from Mom in the middle of the night telling us to get the hell out of wherever we were. I leisurely took the last bite of my French Toast. 

"I don't know. I've always kinda wanted to see Belize." I hear gunshots in the background as Mom fires off a few rounds. 

"Well, wherever you go, make sure to stay together. You know, I don't believe I've ever told you this—" her voice gets a tad emotional as I hear a man screaming in the back "—but I am so glad you kids decided to stay together. You really do better as a team." Malachi shot me a look. "And I know how close you two are." A few more shots are fired and I hear Mom board a jet. "But anyway, I'm off. By the way, do either one of you happen to know how to fly a jet?"

"No."

"No."

"Damn. Well, I guess I'll figure it out on the runway. Kisses to you both. Bye." With that, Mom hangs up. I throw my napkin on my plate and take a deep breath.

"Well, Malach old pal, looks like we're on the run again." 

"Pity. I really loved my computer."

"I think we've got a few spare fake passports in the bookshelf. Do you want to be Ralph Farraday or Roger Wagner?"

"Wagner, I believe. After the composer. Lovely works, you know."

I sigh. "I guess this solves our little problem over living together, hm?"

Malachi smiled. "When you're the kids of a cannibalistic serial killer, you don't _have_ the luxury of complete and undying independence. You take what you can get."

How true.


	2. 2

"Hm, seems like they're onto us," Malachi remarked casually as he read the headlines in the latest _New York Times_. I looked over and read the headline that screamed: 

_MRS. HANNBAL LECTER ON THE RUN; CHILDREN FLEE COUNTRY!_

"Notice they didn't say what country," I said calmly, pulling out my nail file and beginning to work on my nails. 

"Of course not. They have no idea where we are," he said, closing the paper and taking a sip of his bloody Mary. Malachi eyed an ad on the bottom of the page and sighed. 

"Pity we had to flee the country. Wilson's is having a wonderful sale on gloves." 

"Malachi, we're on our way to Mexico. You don't need gloves."

"Wouldn't hurt." 

"Just for my own amusement, what's the current description of you and I? Are we back to being light haired and dark eyed? Or are we starting to look more like Mom these days?" 

"Mm, actually, they're looking for a carbon copy of Dad this month."

"Jeneane Girafolo is going to have a problem this month, then."

"Some people think she has a problem already," he observed. "At least Mom got out ok."

"After the jettison, of course."

"Naturally."

"Think they'll ever catch on?" I asked, wondering if the Feds would ever actually catch up to us. Malachi scoffed. 

"Don't be naïve, sister mine! We're on top of it," he assured me. 

A small child sitting across from us stumbled over to his mother and whined, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick!" 

"I _despise_ small children," I muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't you?" Malachi smiled. 

"No, I love children. They're very good with mustard."

I swatted him on the shoulder. "The last thing we need is to be apprehended as soon as we step off this plane," I reminded him. He looked at me innocently. 

"I was just kidding. You know I can't eat something as high cholesterol as—"

"Drop it," I hissed, sticking my nose into a magazine, trying to become absorbed in it. A moment later I felt a little hand on my leg and I looked up to see the sick child staring at me. 

"You have scary eyes," he told me in a timid yet belligerent voice. I scowled at him. 

"You have no idea, kid," I growled at him. He looked a little surprised, turned green, and proceed to throw up all over my new Armani slacks. I screamed instinctively at being in contact with anything to do with something that came out of a kid, and jumped up. 

"Why'd you do that?!" I demanded. The kid smiled nastily and said, 

"Who cares? I feel better!" 

 "Not for long, you little—"

"Patience, dear sister," Malachi whispered in my ear. "Don't draw attention to us."

"Don't-Wha-_Don't draw attention_? This _child_ just puked all over me--"

"Stewardess? Could we have a few napkins? Thank you."

"I will _never_ get the smell out of these slacks!"

"Perhaps some lemon water also? Yes, thank you."

I sat down in my seat, put my head in my hand, and thought to myself, "And I thought being a fugitive from the law was hard…"


	3. 3

"Malachi, its perfect!" I cheered after touring our new villa in Belize, secluded from all the hustle and bustle of the city. I stepped out on the deck and looked out over the ocean in awe. "This is so much different from cold, crowded London, isn't it?" 

"Mm-hm," Malachi said absent mindedly as he turned the stereo on. Mick Jagger began to blast forth from the speakers, which made Malachi flinch. He slammed the power button off and stared at me. 

I smiled. "You need to explore more areas of music, Malach. Broaden your horizons."

"I don't think 'The Stones' are going to be part of my music scene any time soon," he said, stepping out with me. "Did Mother call?"

"Yeah. She parachuted out of the jet and landed somewhere in Trinidad."

"Carnival time down there, isn't it?"

"Yes…Dad always said she had good timing." Malachi fell silent next to me at the mention of our late father. I sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to bring it up."

He looked thoughtfully out over the sea for a moment before saying in a small, quiet voice, "Do you think…maybe…just maybe…that Dad is still alive?"

I laughed bitterly. "Are you crazy? We saw him take that bullet."

"But people live through gunshot wounds…maybe Dad did?" 

I shook my head. "Malachi, that thought will drive you crazy. Just don't think about it." 

"But…what if he lived, and they still got him somewhere, and—"

"Malachi!" I cried for both of our sakes'. "Please, just leave it alone. We can't change the past. Dad is dead. Period." 

He was completely still for a moment before nodding finally. "Yeah, you're probably right…" he said in a broken voice. He sighed heavily. "I could have done something. I should have been watching. We were in public. I mean—"

"Malachi, come on. Don't be hard on yourself. You know it wasn't anyone's fault. It just happened." 

He gave me an icy look and retreated back in the house. My mood being considerably less of what is was before, I went back into the house for a little afternoon pick-me-up in the bar. I found a note from Malachi on the table that read, 

_Went to market. Back soon._

That was typical of Malachi—any time some personal crisis arose, he would go shopping. It could be for a car or for a papaya, as long as it involved spending money, he was all for it. I had a little coconut rum and fell asleep on the hammock out on the deck. I must have been asleep for about two hours when I felt someone shaking me awake frantically. "Huh? Wha…?" I sputtered. 

It was my brother, looking rather wild-eyed. "Rue! You'll never believe what I just saw!" 

"An unhappy person in the Caribbean?"

"No!" He took a deep breath. "I just saw Dad!" 


	4. 4

It took a moment for what Malachi said to fully sink in. I stared up at him in disbelief. "What are you talking about? You saw Dad?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

"Don't get snippy," I warned, rolling out of the hammock so I could face him upright. "Look, Malach, you've been under a lot of stress lately. I mean, having to leave London so quickly and—"

"It's not that. You know its not that," he said with a pleading look in his eye. "I saw him, I know I did!" 

I sighed softly and shook my head. "Dad is dead. You know that."

"But I _saw_ him. I know it was him!" 

"Look, it was just someone who looked like him, all right? Calm down. I'm sure it wasn't him."

Malachi got a stormy look on his face and roared, "I knew him a lot better than you did, Rue! Enough, at least, to recognize him even after all these years and even though every reasonable part of me insists that he's dead!"  
  


"Get ahold of yourself," I said placidly. "Just take a deep breath, and calm down."

He stared hard at me with his eyes on fire. Sometimes his gaze actually scared me; it penetrated every part of your soul, making you feel as though nothing was left unburied when he stared at you like that. When he was really intent on something, and I mean really certain, there was no way to make him see otherwise. The intensity radiated off his being and I knew he believed what he had seen. But the possibility of our father still being alive where a million to one, if we were lucky. In the back of my mind I reluctantly admitted to myself that none of us were really _for certain_ he had died, but a bullet to the chest has a way of ceasing a person's life. The fire melted in my brother's eyes, and his whole face took on a more philosophical air. He turned his back to me, and gazed out at the turquoise sea in front of him, lost in the depths of his thought. Slowly and carefully, he murmered to me: 

"State contenti, umana gente, al _quia_; che, se potuto aveste veder tutto, mestier non era parturir Maria." 

I sighed. "You don't have to remind me that I'm the only on in the family who can't speak Italian."

He turned to me and said in a low, but powerful tone, "Apri la mente a quel ch'io ti paleso e fermlvi entro; che non fa scienza, senza lo ritenere, avere inteso." 

I gritted my teeth. "Lovely, Malachi, really, but speak in English, would you?" 

He looked down at his feet for a moment. When his gaze returned to my face, I could see tears brimming in his eyes. "Sister, after all these years of torture writhing in my soul, can you not allow me for one instant to believe that the one person I felt could understand me and love me be still alive? Many times in my life things have not turned out as I have wished, but nothing as monstrous and horrible has ever happened that compares to that of losing my father, whom I loved more than the air I breathe, more than the sky above me or the ground below me. The one person who saw me as I am and accepted that, and in fact loved me for it. After all these nights spent awake, reliving that horrible day in my mind again and again, of nights wondering if I could have done anything to stop it from happening, but most of all, wondering if Father might still be living. If he was as strong as we knew he was, could he not have indeed lived and still be living? Tell me this, Rue, and look me in the eye so I know that you are truthful." 

I bit my lip at this outpour, which were so, so rare, and heaved a heavy sigh. "Ok, Malachi. Let's go down to the market and see what we can see." 


	5. 5

"Honestly," I moaned, ripping yet another hole in my pants by being caught by the brushes. "Couldn't we take the road?" 

Malachi, fleet as a mountain goat, made his way effortlessly through the seemingly endless forest of sharp thorns and bushes of the hillside we were currently, more or less, scaling down. "No. We can't let anyone see us." 

"We're gonna be pretty obvious once I trip over a root and fly down the side of the hill," I hissed, trying to push the strange foreign plants out of my way. 

"Then be careful," my brother warned in a tone that was to suggest that I was not annoy him. "We must remain undetected at any cos—"

"YAAAHHHHH!!!" I shrieked, losing my footing and beginning to cascade down the hillside. Mowing down bushes and small trees with my body proved to be more painful than one might think, and I landed, finally, in a heap at the bottom of the hill. Weeds tangled my hair, blood shone through my shirt, and I had lost a shoe. "God_dammit_," I balked, sounding for all the world exactly like my mother. Malachi appeared by my side a half second later, extending a hand to help. 

"I knew I could count on you to keep our presence concealed," he quipped sarcastically. "I always did admire your stealth." 

"Shut _up_!" I snarled, my mood quickly turning sour. "And help me up. Christ, that's the _second_ pair of Armani slacks that have been ruined today!" 

"Even tumbling down the side of a hill, you did it in the best taste available." 

I gritted my teeth, not trusting myself to say anything. Nothing ever seemed to be too difficult for Malachi, whether it was diagnosing a new kind of psychological disorder or scaling down a hill. I, on the other hand, had an incredible knack for tripping over anything, including my own two feet. It always amazed me that people think that I, Hannibal Lecter's daughter, should be a graceful, magnificently beautiful woman. I was the biggest klutz I knew. 

It must have embarrassed Dad on occasion but he never said anything. I was a tomboy when I was a kid and I suppose I still am. I always wanted to go fishing and play baseball, and I think that was just a little too "normal" for Dad. He would just smile politely and tell me whatever I wanted to do was fine with him, but I _knew_ in the back of his mind he always wondered how on earth I could be his offspring. 

I also have an incredible knack for making messes, a talent I've had since I was a child. In fact, one of my first memories was sneaking into the kitchen, eating the last of the chocolate ice cream out of the container, and deciding the container would be a good helmet for playing space invaders. Of course, not wanting to take the time to wash out the ice cream, I just stuck it right on my head and went about my business. I still remember that look on Dad's face, one of absolute shock, when he found trails of chocolate ice cream running through the house and finding me on the antique couch, jumping up and down with chocolate all over my face, clothes, and furniture. He never did get those chocolate stains out of the couch. 

I guess I felt like I never really fit with him, and that's a strange position to be in when you're a child. I suppose that's why although I was heartbroken when Dad was killed, I wasn't as destroyed as Malachi was, and I couldn't understand the depth of his grief. Maybe even then, looking up into Malachi's gaze on that hillside, I felt a twinge of jealousy. 

"We're just wasting our time anyway," I said, standing up and trying to pick some of the thorns out of my hair. "And we would have been a lot less noticeable had we just taken the time to drive here," I said, pointing to the growing crowd of locals who had come to gawk at me. 

"Yes…I really should have anticipated this…"

"What?" 

He looked at me. "Rue, you could trip over a whisper of wind. Hiking down a hill is damn near impossible." 

"Its not _that,_" I cried indignantly, turning red. "I have big feet. They get in my way."

"I seem to have adjusted all right. After all, I've had 24 years to get used to them," he said, holding a foot up in the air and looking at it thoughtfully. Furiously, I flipped some hair out of my face. 

"Well whoop-de-fucking-do for you, Malachi!" I screamed at him. My temper had a way of flaring up, and indeed I was getting strange looks from the people in the square. He shot me a warning look and grabbed my arm. 

"Follow me," he instructed. "You are a pill, you know that?" 

"I am not," I said, shoving him away. "I just fell down the side of a freakin' hill, man. What the hell do you expect?" 

"Temper," he warned. "Insults and swearing will get us nowhere. Come, this is where I saw him, I was standing here." We came to an abrupt halt after a brisk walk. I looked around me at the bustling marketplace, searching the crowd for an eerily familiar face. After a few moments of silence, I said reluctantly,

"Malach, I don't think he's here. See, you just let your imagination run away with you, and you get all worked up, and then—"

"There!" he whispered ferociously, tightening his grip on my arm. I looked in the direction his eyes were riveted to and didn't see anyone I knew. 

"Where?" 

"There! In the white suit! By the mango stand!" 

They _all_ looked like mango stands to me, so I scanned the crowd for a white suit. My eyes fell upon the back of an older looking gentleman who seemed to be absorbed in the wonders of the fruit in front of him. Malachi and I waited patiently. Finally, the man turned in profile and I sighed. 

"Malachi, that's not Dad. That's just some old—" The man completed his turn and I saw his face full on. My jaw dropped. "That's Dad." 

The man caught our gaze, and held it for just a second, long enough for recognition to flash through his eyes, before turning and walking away hurriedly. Not wanting to let go after seeing him again, I cried out, "Dad!" to which Malachi swiftly clamped his hand over my mouth. 

"What do you think you're doing?" he growled in a tone that mirrored our father's. "Anyone could be in this square, _anyone_. Including the FBI. We can't afford to be careless, Rue, even you know that." 

I nodded and he let go. "We have to call Mom," I said. "She has to come down here, and—" 

"Are you _insane_? All four Lecters in the same place at the same time? If anything were to go wrong, we'd all go to prison! Worse than prison! An asylum of some kind! You remember the stories Father used to tell!" 

I nodded numbly, trying not to think of the nightmarish stories my father had told us once we were old enough to know exactly who—that is, _what_—he was. 

Malachi took a deep breath. "Here is what we shall do. Firstly we will call Mother and inform her of what we've seen. Secondly, we must find Father again and follow him, perhaps discover his alias. Thirdly…"

For some reason, Malachi always functioned best in crises. I had learned to just leave everything up to him since he always seemed to be in control of the situation. Me? A small grease fire was enough to send me into hysterics. It was best to leave Malachi in control. 

"Got it?" he said when he was done with his spiel. I nodded, having not listened to a word he said but never letting on. "Good. Let's go." 


	6. 6

We were on our way back to the villa in a hurry. Malachi was mumbling to himself the whole way, while I was keeping a sharp eye out for any roots that I might possibly trip over. I didn't see him stop dead in his tracks, and I ran right into him.  
  
"Hey! Watch where you're going," I complained, stumbling backwards. Malachi had an alarmed look on his face and I quickly recovered. "Malachi, what is it?"  
  
"I think I just—yeah, I just thought of something. Oh no," he said softly, his face falling. "No, no, that can't be true…"  
  
"What?" I asked, glancing around. "What, do you see the police? Should I run? I'm getting pretty good at it!"  
  
Malachi gave me an odd look, then grabbed me by the arm and didn't stop dragging me until we were in the door. "I really hope I'm wrong on this one," he said to himself.  
  
"What already?"  
  
"Rue, you know how Father had all of the classic symptoms of antisocial personality disorder?"  
  
"Anti-sociey-whaty?"  
  
Malachi sighed. "He was a sociopath, Rue."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Malachi began to pace. "A person who doesn't know, or doesn't care, about morals. They are often cold, aloof and calculating. Often times they are even charming, and they know how to get what they want. They are self- centered only in that they don't know how to be any other way. The ends justifies the means for them. Nothing is impossible for a sociopath."  
  
"So what? That's Dad, but we've known that for a long time."  
  
"But Rue, you saw him…I saw him…Father is alive…but why…" Malachi sat down on the couch and stared into space. "But why wouldn't he come back to us? Of course, it makes perfect sense now. He's a sociopath, and though he is our father, he doesn't care. He looks out for his well-being. I should have known. God, I should have realized…"  
  
"Malachi, you know its not that," I said, stroking my brother's hair.  
  
"No, Rue, you don't understand. I've seen this. I've diagnosed this." He stood up and began to pace again. "Sociopaths are capable of having families and relationships, but inside they don't care about them in the least. Its all fulfillment for a sociopath. You notice how Father was never there when something would have been too taxing on him."  
  
"Hey look, I forgave him for not coming to my Easter pageant in second grade. Honestly, could you blame him?"  
  
"No, no, do you remember he was never there, for instance, when we were sick, other than to diagnose our illness? Or how about when you got your heart broken for the first time? Or when one of us hurt ourselves? He wasn't there. It would have required something of him, and he didn't want that."  
  
I smiled. "Do you remember that clown Mom would hire for us when we were sick or hurt? The clown would come, and—"  
  
"Rue, please. I'm serious now. Father felt he had no obligation to society. He did things because he wanted to; he was interested in fine things because they pleased him. And when he was shot in Vienna, and ultimately escaped, he saw family as something that would hinder his lifestyle. Thus, he never came back. It all makes sense now," Malachi finished, quite worked up by this time. "Why didn't I see it! People have called him a sociopath and I never believed it! Why! God, I'm a fool! I didn't see it!"  
  
"Malachi, come on, we know Dad—"  
  
"We thought we knew Dad!" He began to pace furiously; I had never seen him this hurt or angry. "Why was I led in like that? God, I've seen it so many times! I've seen it happen more times than I can count, and yet I was duped too!"  
  
"How do you explain his relationship with Mom, then? Come on, a sociopath can't love!"  
  
"How do we know he loved her? Did he ever tell her?! No! Did he ever tell us he loved us? No!"  
  
"Dad wasn't like that, but it was unspoken, it was there—"  
  
"No no no Rue! You don't get it!" He was very near tears by this point. "He was a sociopath, and nothing more than a sociopath, always was and always will be! People can't just change like that, especially people with personality disorders like antisocial! Go look it up if you don't believe me! Its right there, in DSM IV, under 'Antisocial Personality Disorder', code number 33—"  
  
"Malachi, stop!" I yelled, getting worked up as well. "You don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
"No, I know exactly what I'm talking about Rue, which is why it scares you! Go on, admit it! Admit that you're scared that I'm right!"  
  
"You're not right, you have no idea what you're talking about!" I screamed as hard as I could at him. I could never remember speaking to him like this. "You're just angry at him for not coming back, so you're trying to rationalize it into a nice, neat little psychological category like you do with everything else in your life! You diagnose a situation before you even know what it is!"  
  
"I know exactly what it is! I see it all now! Father never loved nor wanted you, or me, and he only wanted Mother for his personal safety and probably for sexual gratification! That's all! But when family life became inconvenient, he scared us off! Either he set the whole raid up, or he escaped and didn't tell us!"  
  
"You're fucking paranoid, Malachi! Listen to yourself! Dad, setting up a raid? Come on! He could have just as easily gotten one of us hurt as him!"  
  
A cruel smile appeared on Malachi's face. "You see, sis? For a sociopath, the ends justifies the means. Getting one of us hurt didn't matter, as long as it gave him an alibi, or even a route to escape."  
  
I was too shocked to speak; what was wrong with my brother? "Malachi, you said it yourself, you were closer to him than anyone, how could you—"  
  
"Because I was taken in!" he roared, enraged by this time and pacing around furiously as if something possessed him. "I believed him! I looked up to him! I never thought in a million years that he was what he was! Classic symptoms! Classic symptoms of a sociopath's victim!" He went on ranting as he stormed through the villa, eventually walking out the door and slamming it shut hard behind him. The stillness and quietness that he left behind him was almost deafening, and I nearly broke down in sobs. What had gotten into Malachi? I didn't even want to think about what he had said, whether it was true or not, I was too worried about my brother.  
  
I ran (yes, ran) to the phone and dialed Mom's cell as fast as my fingers would let me. After about 5 rings, I heard someone pick up.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Mom!"  
  
"Hold on, dear," she said. I heard a few gunshots, a scream, then silence. "Hi Rue, how are you?" she said sweetly. "How was your day?"  
  
"Mom, its Malachi! Something's wrong with him, something really wrong!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Mom, first I have to tell you something, and you have to believe me. It sounds crazy, but its true. We both saw it. We went down to market and we saw Dad, Mom! I swear to you it was Dad! I swear to you on my life!"  
  
"Your dad?"  
  
"Yes, Mom, I swear it was him! He looked straight at us and then hurried away, but it was him! We came home and Malachi started ranting on and on about Dad being a sociopath and how he never loved us or wanted us, and that's why he left, and something about Dad setting up a raid and DSM IV—"  
  
"Hold on, slow down! Your brother was ranting about your father being a sociopath?"  
  
"Yes, he was getting all psychiatrist-y on me! He was talking all this jargon shit and describing symptoms, and how he'd been duped, and—"  
  
"Your brother? Screaming? About your father?"  
  
"Yes Mom, I'd never seen him like that! It was like he was another person! God, it was horrible," I said, finally starting to cry a little bit. "He's gone now. He left. I don't know where he went." I sunk down in an easy chair. "I know its not a good idea Mom, but I think you need to come down here…"  
  
"I'm already hijacking a ship, dear. I'll be there in a day or so." I heard her put her phone down and yell, "IF YOU DON'T WANT TO GET YOUR HEAD BLOWN OFF, YOU'D BETTER START STEERING TOWARDS BELIZE, YOU HEAR ME? COMPRENDE?" She fired off a few rounds into the air and I heard the crew pull up anchor. "You just sit tight, sweetie, and Mom'll be there soon."  
  
"Thanks, Mom," I sniffed. "You're the best."  
  
"Don't mention it, honey," she said with the officials screaming in the background. "I'd do anything for you two. Bye now." 


	7. 7

I was, you can imagine, pretty upset over the whole thing. When Malachi didn't come back after an hour or so, I decided to go out and look for him. It just wasn't like him! I sighed and wondered if I could have done something, or said something to reassure him. Shaking my head, I decided not to think about it.  
  
I wandered down to the main street and casually looked around at the street markets. Shopkeepers begged me to buy jewelry, shoving beautiful necklaces and bracelets in my face. I didn't feel much like buying anything, so I just smiled politely and told them that yes, the jewelry was very pretty. I somehow ended up on the ritzier side of town and found myself in a selective wine shop, just looking over the labels. I was never much into wine but I could usually pick the good out from the bad. Then again, I didn't feel much like drinking and so I kept on going.  
  
The sun was beginning to get pretty hot so I opted for an outdoor café where I could sit in the shade for a little while. It was sitting there, fanning myself, that I saw him again.  
  
Hannibal Lecter. My dad.  
  
He was walking briskly towards a whitewashed building on the corner. This time, I couldn't let him get away. I had to know. Whatever his reasons were for abandoning us, I had to know. He owed us that much.  
  
I nearly jumped out of my chair, and for once in my life, I walked gracefully and apparently undetected after him. I kept a good distance between us and entered the building. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him enter the northernmost room of the hotel. I waited for two minutes in the lobby, and then I couldn't wait any more. I had to know.  
  
The only emotion I felt as I was climbing the steps towards his room was anger. I was surprised at myself since I am never angry, but Malachi's words rang true in my mind. It seemed to explain everything about Dad, even the stuff I didn't want explained. But I had to know.  
  
I arrived at the room and stared at the door for a while. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding. Maybe this was just someone that looked exactly like Dad. A voice in the back of my head denied it. I had to know. I knocked.  
  
A pause, then I heard movement inside the room. Slowly, slowly I heard someone walk to the door. Another short pause, and then rustling of the doorknob. I took a deep breath. This was it. The door opened.  
  
"Daddy, Daddy…" I sobbed, falling into my father's arms. "Oh Dad…" He pulled me inside and shut the door. He stroked my hair while I wept gently. "Dad, why did you…why did you…"  
  
"Rue, you shouldn't be here," he said in that voice I remembered so well.  
  
"Dad, I have to know," I said, pulling away and looking into his eyes for the first time in five years. "Dad, why did you leave? If you're alive, why did you leave us?" My voice sounded weak and not at all like my own. I guess I missed him more than I led on.  
  
His gaze softened somewhat. "Rue, I—"  
  
"Why did you leave us?" I demanded, my voice finally gaining strength. "Do you have any idea what you've put this family through? Do you even care?"  
  
"Rue—"  
  
"Or what about Malachi? Do you know the hell you've put him through? Or what about Mom? She's still on the run, Dad, day and night!" I sighed and looked away. "And what about me?"  
  
Dad was silent for a moment, then turned to look out the window. "Rue, did you ever stop to think that maybe the reason I didn't come back was because I cared so much for all of you?"  
  
"That doesn't make any sense."  
  
He sighed gently and sat down. I could see the toll five years of living alone on the run had taken on him. He looked tired, unhappy, and lonely. "Remember Vienna? How we thought we were safe and at home? As soon as those gunshots were fired, Rue, I knew what a terrible mistake I'd made."  
  
"What?!" I cried. "What do you mean, 'a terrible mistake'?"  
  
"Not about having a family, Rue. I never regretted that," he said, looking up into my eyes. "But having me near you only put you in jeopardy. Those gunshots could have so easily found their way to you, or your mother, or Malachi. Luckily, they didn't hit any of us."  
  
"What? But I thought you were shot."  
  
"No, I faked it," he sighed, standing up and beginning to pace. He was the mirror image of my brother. "As soon as you three were safely away, I escaped before I could be captured."  
  
"But we read in the papers—"  
  
"They are sick of chasing me, Rue," he said in a tired voice. "Just as I am sick of running from them. They wrote in the papers that I had been killed just to save their necks. It cost them millions of dollars a year trying to track me down. I finally won." He smiled in a cat-like way. "I beat them."  
  
"That's great Dad, but why didn't you come back if they aren't after you any more?"  
  
"Just because the FBI isn't after me anymore doesn't me that no one else is. I've pissed off a lot of people in my life time," he said with a smirk. "I am, as you say, an urban legend. People continue to be fascinated by me. They report sightings of me all the time, though I am supposedly dead. Sometimes, Rue, law enforcement officers aren't the biggest obstacle."  
  
"Are you talking about private assassins?"  
  
"Among other third parties, yes. And those people have no laws against killing those who are with them."  
  
"You mean they would kill all of us, and not just you?"  
  
"Yes, exactly. I've had many close calls since the last time I saw you, Rue. Situations such as those are not exactly a family affair, if you will." He took a deep breath. "What I'm trying to say is…and this isn't easy…when you're with me, you are in extreme danger. When you are spread out, you stand a much larger chance of survival. I…I love all of you too much to be in your presence."  
  
Tears came to my eyes at this confession. "Are you sociopathic, Dad?" I asked weakly, almost afraid of the answer. Dad, with a bewildered expression that I could even remember a word like that, smiled weakly.  
  
"I was. For a long time. I was angry at a wrong done to me many, many years ago," he said wistfully. "But when I met your mother, that all changed."  
  
"But Malachi said that people with that disorder can't chan—oh my god, Malachi!" I screamed. I began to claw at Dad frantically. "Oh Dad, you have to help me!"  
  
"Help you?"  
  
"You have to help me find Malachi! Please Dad, this is very important! When we saw you in the marketplace and knew you were alive, Malachi became really upset! He's convinced you're sociopathic, that you don't care about us and that we inhibit your lifestyle and that's why you left us! Please Dad, he walked out on me and I'd never seen him like that! He…he was yelling and pacing around and just left! I don't know where he is or what he's going to say to people…please Dad…" I sobbed. "Please, you have to help me find my brother…I love him so much…I can't stand to see anything happen to him…"  
  
"Calm down," Dad ordered in a firm voice. "I know you're upset but bawling like a child will get us nowhere. You must think rationally and its difficult to do so when you are sobbing."  
  
Much as I hated to admit it, Dad was right. I took a deep breath and wiped away my tears. "Ok, ok, I'm calm…" I glanced over at Dad, who seemed to be lost in thought. He just looked so different now. I felt like I was in the room with a stranger. I realized with sorrow how much turmoil he must have gone through these last five years fighting for his life to keep his family safe. In some ways, it had been easier for us—we thought he was dead, and that thought, although horrible, at least offered us some safety, some finality. Dad, on the other hand, not only had to fear for his own safety, but for ours as well.  
  
Without looking back at me, Dad said, "I've read your books, Rue. Very impressive."  
  
"Really?" I said. I knew what he was trying to do. He had used this tactic since I was a little kid. Every time I was upset about something, he would compliment me on an achievement, and it would almost always calm me down. It felt good to have that reassurance again. "I'm glad you got to read them. A lot of times I'd wonder what you would have thought of them. But, of course, I thought you were…that you were…" Tears began to stream down my cheeks again and Dad wrapped his arms around me. His familiar cologne and warm arms made me feel truly safe for the first time in years.  
  
"I've missed you so much, Rue. So often I'd give anything, just to hold you in my arms like this, if only for a moment," he whispered to me. How did he know that's exactly what I wanted to hear?  
  
"Oh Dad…I never knew if you were proud of me or not. I mean, I'm completely opposite from you, and—"  
  
"And that's why I love you so much. You are your own person. You are strong, Rue, very strong. I've always admired your warrior spirit. I was never once not proud of you."  
  
"What about that time I set fire to the living room rug?"  
  
He laughed slowly; funny, it almost sounded like he had forgotten how to laugh. "Yes, there was that."  
  
"And the time my gerbils, Schizo and Twitchy, got loose and ended up in the plumbing."  
  
"Ah, yes, I remember that quite well. I was the one that had to retrieve them, as I recall."  
  
"And what about the time I ran through the neighborhood completely nude?"  
  
He laughed again, this time sounding more like himself. "The neighbors nearly had a fit. That was a classic moment."  
  
"Dad, I've missed you," I said softly, holding him tighter. "Please, don't ever leave us again."  
  
"You know I can't promise that," he said, letting go of me. "But first we must find your brother. Now, it seems to me that Malachi, in that state, would want to be alone. Where can someone go to be alone, completely alone, here?"  
  
"I don't know," I shrugged. "I haven't been here all that long."  
  
Dad thought for a moment, his calculating mind once again working away. "Let's check the coves first. I have a feeling that is where he is." 


End file.
